'    JOS    ?43 

RHYMES' 
OF  THE, 


AND 


By 
FRANK 


BUCKLAND 


BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY   OF 


CALIFORNIA 


"I  in  these  flowery  meads  -would  be. 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me." 


—  Walton. 


Rhymes  of  the 
Stream  and  Forest 


FRANK  MERTON  AUCKLAND 


Copyright,  1909 

by  the 

Forest  and  Stream  Publishing  Co. 
N«w  York 


353 


Oo 


Foreword 

TO  those  who  love  the  forest,  and  who  find 
a  rare  companionship  in  the  murmur  of  a 
flowing  stream,  there  come  moods  when  that 
love  and  companionship  seek  expression  in  at 
tempted  rhyme.  Let  such  be  my  apology  for  that 
herein  contained. 

The  inspiration,  if  such  there  be,  of  what  I 
have  written,  has  come  from  the  forests  and  the 
streams,  themselves.  The  actual  writing,  in  most 
cases,  having  been  first  done  upon  some  stray  bit 
of  paper,  found  in  my  camp-kit  or  in  the  pocket 
of  my  fishing  coat. 

The  reason,  for  the  present  form  of  publication 
lies  in  the  fact  that  most,  anglers  cherish  those 
rhymes,  however  crude,  that  treat  of  their  be 
loved  recreation,  or  of  the  grandeur  of  Nature. 
Because  of  this  fact  I  have  here,  in  reproducing 
the  essential  features  of  a  Fly-book,  endeavored 
to  present  a  means  whereby  such  rhymes,  wher 
ever  found,  may  be  preserved. 

Within  the  pocket,  where  in  the  actual  Fly- 
book  are  found  the  leaders  and  various  other 
necessities  of  the  angler's  art,  may  be  preserved 
magazine  and  newspaper  clippings.  Again, 
within  the  ordinary  Fly-book  are  found  blank 
leaves  separating  those  containing  the  multi 
colored  assortment  of  flies.  Such  blank  pages 
in  this  present  volume  are  intended  for  whatever 
copying  or  original  verse  it  may  be  desired  to 
preserve. 


V oices  of  the  Stream  and  Forest 

Voice  of  the  Stream!    What  measured  sweetness  lies 

Within  the  spell  of  thy  rare  harmony. 
What  fancies  of  the  long-gone  past  arise, 

When  to  the  ear  is  born  thy  melody. 

Voice  of  the  Forest!    Whose  half-heard  refrain, 
Steals  on  the  sense  in  whispered  mystery. 

Would  that  around  my  soul  might  fall  again 
The  charm  of  thy  breeze-murmured  witchery. 


Contents 


Page 

The   Silent   Places i 

The  Stream's   Enchantment 2 

Walton's    Angler 4 

The   Trout's   Beauty 6 

Fishing    9 

Old    Rod 10 

The   Forest   Voices 12 

I'm    a-Longing 14 

The  Brook — In  Summer 17 

In  Autumn   18 

In  Winter   19 

In    Spring    20 

The    Moose    23 

Winter's   Slow    Retreat 33 

Night's   Witchery 34 

At  Night  (a  Contrast) 35 

Thy  Voice  36 

To  Prime's  "I  Go  A-Fishing" 39 

"Have  You  Any  Fish?" 40 

The  Forest  Silence 42 

Lord  of  the  Forest   45 

The  Voices  46 

Newfound  Lake — A  Memory 47 

The  Forest   48 


Contents — continued 

Page 

The    Player 51 

At   Evening    56 

And  Yet  Again 59 

My   Fly-Book    60 

The  Old  Man's  Story  62 

Song  of  the  Forest 67 

Parmachenee  Belle    68 

Coming  of  the  Storm   70 

The  Unknown  Lake   75 

At  the  Trail's  End  76 

To  Y—  Pond    78 

Cry  of  the  Loon 81 

Winter   Voices    82 

Wilderness    84 

Somewhere     87 

The  Fallen  Pine 88 

Going  Home    90 


!      T     T 


Tlie  Silent  Places 

I  love  the  silent  places  where  the  trees 

With   moss-encrusted   trunks,  their  ranks   re 
peat, 

Where  whispers  low,  from  every  passing  breeze 
Seem  but  to  make  the  silence  more  complete. 

I  love  to  roam  far  from  the  paths  of  men, 
To  feel  the  heart-throb  of  the  ancient  wood, 

To  stand  perhaps  within  some  shadowed  glen 
Where  once  of  old  some  painted  warrior  stood. 

I  love  to  thread  the  dim-lit  forest  aisles, 

Whose  arch  on  arch,  their  shadowed  mysteries 
hold, 

To  feel,  beneath  these  vaulted  tangled  wilds, 
As  in  the  spell  of  some  cathedral  old. 

Old  Forest  Paths !  I  love  your  hidden  ways, 
Your    mystery    that    thrills    my    whole    soul 
through, 

To  be  alone  within  your  tangled  maze, 
To  be  alone  with  Nature's  God,  and  you. 


A     ,       ;         •     , 


I 
J 


The   Stream  s   Enchantment 

When  deep  within  a  tangled  forest 
I  find  a  crystal  moss-rimmed  stream, 

There  for  a  time  I  sit  and  wonder, 
Wondering,  rest  I  there  and  dream. 

While  o'er  the  mossy  stones  the  waters 
Sing  sweetly  as  they  glide  away, 

Their  magic  then  once  more  brings  o'er  me, 
Fond  memories  of  a  by-gone  day. 

From  out  the  murmur  of  the  waters, 
Voices  of  friends  I  used  to  know 

There  once  again,  seem  they  to  call  me 
Back  to  those  days  of  long  ago. 

The  stream,  the  moss-grown  bank,  the  forest 
Then  from  my  vision  slowly  fade, 

Once  more  in  fancy  am  I  roaming 

Where  boyhood's  happy  scenes  were  laid. 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

The  stream  where  first  I  learned  of  fishing, 
The  pond  o'er  which  the  willow  hung, 

The  swimmin'  hole,  the  elm  above  it 
From  where  in  June  the  robin  sung. 

The  scent  of  daisies  from  the  meadow, 

The  bobolink's  clear  melody. 
The  quail's  far  call  from  out  the  pasture, 

The  breath  of  that  fair  Summer's  day. 

The  wood  where  in  the  Fall  we  gathered 

The  nuts  among  the  fallen  leaves, 
The  spell  of  Winter  o'er  the  woodland, 

Its  hush  again  my  soul  receives. 

Then  do  you  wonder  that  I  love  it, 

Sweet  music  of  a  forest  stream, 
That  'round  my  soul  weaves  such  enchantment, 

The  gladness  of  a  boyhood  dream. 


Walton  s  Angler 


Old  Walton!  Here  within  thy  book  what  sweet 
ness  lies. 

What  whispered  fancies  here  from  out  thy  pages 
rise, 

Of    waters    flowing    peacefully    'neath    summer 
skies. 


Of    shadowed    nooks    upon    some    quiet    river's 
shore, 

Where  far  from  deafening  tumult  of  the  city's 
roar, 

One  turns  for  rest  when  for  a  time  his  task  is 
o'er. 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

Of  meadows  freshened  by  the  gently  falling  rain, 

Of  wayside  inns,   where   old-time   friends  meet 
once  again, 

To  crack  a  merry  jest  or  sing  some  old  refrain. 


In  fancy  thus  I  catch  the  flowing  river  where, 
Bathed  by  the  incense  of  the  perfume-laden  air, 

You,  Walton,  stand  in  pure  contentment  fishing 
there. 


>     ; 


. 

The  Trout  s  Beauty 

You  may  sing  of  the  glory  of  jewels, 
Of  the  flash  of  the  diamond's  ray, 

Of  the  lights  that  glow  in  the  western  sky 
At  the  close  of  some  perfect  day. 

You  may  sing  of  the  splendors  of  daybreak, 

Of  the  tint  of  the  tropic  skies, 
Of  the  morning  glow  o'er  some  distant  sea 

Where  the  drift  of  the  cloud-bank  lies. 

But  for  me  there's  a  far  richer  beauty 
With  a  wealth  of  color  more  rare 

Than  the  play  of  the  fairest  earth-won  gem, 
Or  the  lights  of  the  'lumined  air. 

A  rich  beauty,  the  rarest  in  Nature, 
Or  the  wealth  of  an  artist's  dream, 

That  is  found  in  the  glory  of  color 
Of  a  trout  from  some  crystal  stream. 


Fishing 

You  ask  me,  why  I  love  this  fishing, 
Why,  by  some  quiet  stream  I  care  to  stray, 

When  far  from  out  the  south  a-blowing, 
The  wind  comes  gently  at  the  break  of  day. 

You  ask  me,  why  I  love  to  harken 

As  o'er  the  mossy  stones,  the  waters  sing. 

Why,  often  there,  I  stop  and  ponder 

The  message  that  those  laughing  waters  bring. 

I  answer:  Have  you  tried  this  fishing, 

When  'round  your  soul  life's  weary  burdens 
lie? 

Have  you  gone  forth  and  heard  the  waters 
That  sing  of  peace,  beneath  God's  open  sky? 

Of  peace  and  rest,  rest  for  one  weary. 

Of  strength  to  throw  aside  some  long-borne 

care. 
That  joy  one  only  finds  a-fishing, 

Such  have  I  found  beside  the  waters  there. 


Old  Rod 

Old  rod,  we've  traveled  many  miles 
Since  first  we  started  out  together, 

We've  seen  some  fishing,  you  and  I, 
In  pleasant  and  in  rainy  weather. 

We've  started  in  the  early  dawn 

When  other  folks  were  still  a-dreaming, 

We've  caught  the  first  rays  of  the  sun 
Above  the  eastern  tree-tops  beaming. 

We've  brushed  the  dew  from  off  the  grass 
In   May,   when   first   the  birds   were   singing, 

Such  music,  you  and  I  have  heard 

From  out  the  waking  woodland  ringing ! 

We've  heard  the  songs  of  many  streams 

In  woodland  and  in  grass-grown  meadow, 

The  water  purling  o'er  the  stones 

We've  seen  in  sunlight  and  in  shadow. 

10 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

We've  seen  the  flowers  that  early  grow 
Near  where  the  water  cold  is  running, 

We've  found  the  May  Flower's  dainty  star 
In  dryer  spots,  its  petals  sunning. 

We've  felt  the  breath  of  early  Spring, 

We've  fished  where   Summer's  streams   were 
flowing, 

We've  fished  again,  when  o'er  the  land 
The  late  Fall  winds  were  rudely  blowing. 


We've  traveled  home  at  dewey  eve, 

Sometimes  with  basket  full  to  brimming, 

More  often,  truth  to  tell,  the  fish 

We  should  have  caught,  were  still  a-swimming. 


ii 


The   Forest  Voices 

I  have  heard  of  old  the  Forest  Voices  calling, 
In   Spring's    fair   freshness  and  in   Summer's 

deeper  green. 
In  the  Autumn,  when  the  ripened  leaves  were 

falling, 

And  yet  again,  when  Winter  held  the  changing 
scene. 


The  moaning  of  the  beaten  storm-swept  forest 

trees, 
The  varied  sounds  of  life  within  the  shadowed 

wood, 

Of  such  are  built   the   forest's   wondrous   sym 
phonies, 

That  heard  by  men,  are  yet  but  faintly  under 
stood. 


12 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

Could    I    but    catch    the    pine   tree's    whispered 

melody, 
The  murmured  singing  of  some  crystal  forest 

stream, 

Then  would  I  rhyming  build  such  perfect  har 
mony 

As   once  perhaps   was   heard  in   some   sweet 
poet's  dream. 


I  m  A.   Longing 


I'm  a-longing  for  the  magic  of  the  hills, 

For   the   waters   where   the   speckled   fighters 
rise, 

For  the  murmur  of  the  moss-rimmed  hidden  rills 
In  the  valley  where  the  mountain  shadow  lies. 

I'm  a-longing  for  the  balsam-scented  breeze, 
For  the  fragrance  of  the  moisture-laden  air, 

For  the  network  of  the  grand  old  forest  trees, 
And  the  silence  of  the  woods  about  one  there. 

I'm  a-longing  once  again  the  trail  to  thread, 
Where  the  shadows  of  the  trees  unbroken  lie, 

Where  the  moss   sinks  deep  beneath   the  silent 

tread, 
And  the  coolness  hides  beneath  the  sultry  sky. 

Yes,  I'm  longing  for  those  dear  old  hidden  ways. 

In  my  dreams  their  hallowed  spots  again  I  see. 
Then  I  live  once  more  those  by-gone  camping 
days, 

And  anew,  I  catch  the  forest  mystery. 


The  Brook 

(IN  SUMMER.) 

The  brook  in  Summer,  and  the  meadow  fair, 
The  ripple's  murmur  from  its  stony  bed. 
The   deep   still  pool  where  wide  the   willows 
spread, 

Its  face  unstirred  by  breath  of  sultry  air, 

Within  its  depths,  the  fish  suspended  there 
On  idly  moving  fins.     The  mystic  thread 
That  marks  the  eddy  at  the  ripple's  head. 

The  laziness  of  Summer  everywhere. 

The  richer  green  where  cool  the  water  flows 
'Gainst  grass-grown  bank,  by  winding,  silent 

way, 
Then    gliding    where    the    brookside    tangle 

grows, 

Unseen,,  the  silent  current  steals  away 
To  hidden  depths,  that  but  the  muskrat  knows, 
While  over  all  the  spell  of  this  fair  day. 

17 


s^   \5L£;''"x§r 


A 
% 


(IN    AUTUMN.) 

Go  seek  the  brook  when  Autumn's  crystal  haze 
Lies  o'er  the  distant  wood  and  silent  fields, 
The  course,  where  silently  the  current  steals 

In  shrunken  volume,  through  the  weedy  maze 

Where  still  the  green  of  early  Summer  stays, 
Last  green  that  to  the  touch  of  Autumn  yields 
As  o'er  the  land  her  mystic  spell  she  wields 

Before  the  chill  approach  of  Winter  days. 


Now  choked  by  Summer's  tangled  growth  of 

weeds, 

How  noiselessly  the  water  glides  away 
By  leaf-strewn  brink,  where  twisting  channel 

leads 

To  silent  depths.    Then  by  some  hidden  way 
Where  measuredly,  the  eddy  slow  recedes, 
As  though  'twere  here  the  water  fain  would 
stay. 


18 


(IN   WINTER.) 

Hushed  was  the  murmur  of  the  frozen  stream 

As  by  its  course  we  stood,  one  Winter's  day. 

Ice-bound  from  bank  to  bank  its  surface  lay, 
But  still  there  filtered  through  that  icy  screen 
A  half-caught  hint  of  flowing  waters  green, 

From  where  they  still  pursued  their  prisoned 
way. 

Low  o'er  the  snow-clad  fields,  the  clouds  of 


Lent  somber  color  to  the  Winter  scene. 

The  drifted  snows  above  the  hidden  bank, 
The    muskrat's    muddied    track    along    the 

shore, 

Where  late  the  meadow  grass  in  masses  rank 
Had  grown.    While  careless  step  of  ours  no 

more, 

As  then  in  unseen  tunneled  burrowings,  sank, 
For  firm,  the  ice-bound  crust,  our  passage 
bore. 

19 


(IN  SPRING.) 

The  swollen,  turbid  meadow  brook  of  Spring, 
Chill  waters  laden  with  the  melting  snow, 
The  twisting  eddies  and  the  current's  flow, 

In  broken  ranks,  the  drifting  ice-cakes  bring. 

The  flood,  far  o'er  the  meadow  wandering, 
Along  its  course,   in  muddied  row  on  row 
The  jagged  cakes,  the  lapping  waters  throw 

Then  seize  and  onward  down  the  current  swing. 

The    crunch    and    tinkle    where   the    ice-cakes 

grind, 

The  voice  unceasing,  of  the  swollen  stream. 
The  lisp  and  murmur  where  the  waters  wind 
Through   sodden  tangled  grass.     The   far- 
caught  gleam 
Of  foam-flecked  meadow,  where  now  uncon- 

fined, 

The    spreading    waters    claim    the    lowland 
scene. 

20 


C,    ' 


The  Moose 

Far  in  the  west,  the  yellow  sun  went  down, 
Behind  the  distant  hills  of  darkening  gray. 

The   wind   had   ceased   and   life   gave   forth   no 

sound, 
For  over  all,  the  forest-stillness  lay. 

A  crystal  lake  among  the  tree-clad  hills 
Gave  back  the  last  departing  golden  ray. 

Its  waters  fed  by  countless  woodland  rills 
For  ages  thus  had  sped  the  parting  day. 

About  the  shores  of  this  fair  northern  lake 

A  mighty  moose,  his  Summer  home  had  made. 

Here  had   he   turned   and   found   his   woodland 

mate, 
With  crashing  haste,  her  forest  call  obeyed. 

October's  golden  haze  again  spread  o'er 

The  lake  and  woodland  where  the  moose  had 
dwelt, 

Impatient  tramped  the  beast  the  forest  floor, 
Once  more  his  heart,  the  wander-spirit  felt. 

23 


To  that  far  call,  his  blood  in  answer  burned, 
Then   forth  to  haunts  untried,   his  course   he 

laid. 
Far   toward   the    south    his   steps   at   last   were 

turned. 
Nor  rage,  nor  fear,  instinct  alone  obeyed. 

A  hunter  deeply  learned  in  forest  ways, 

Whose  heart  had  felt  the  Autumn-spirit's  call. 

For  miles  had  trod  the  woodland's  tangled  maze, 
For  guide,  his  sense  of  forest-craft  was  all. 

An  unknown,  sheltered  lake  at  last  he  found, 
Back  from  whose  rocky  shores,  his  home  he 
made. 

His  simple  tent  beside  a  grassy  mound, 

Within,  his  bed  of  fragrant  boughs,  he  laid. 

Here  dwelt  the  man,  till  o'er  the  western  wood, 
The  hunter's  moon,  its  silver  crescent  hung. 

Then  stirred  within  his  soul,  the  hunter's  mood, 
And  o'er  his  back,  his  trusty  gun,  he  slung. 

24 


i 


With  horn  of  bark  hung  ready  at  his  side, 

Swiftly  he  passed  along  the  lake's  dark  shore, 

Until  a  spot  he  reached,  where  spreading  wide 
A  sandy  beach,  the  moon's  pale  light  spread 
o'er. 


Here  then  he  paused  and  raised  the  birchen  horn. 

Then  echoed  far  an  uncouth,  mournful  call, 
Weird  melody,  by  tree  and  hilltop  borne, 

Strange  longing  note,  with  plaintive  rise  and 
fall. 

Then  with  the  passing  of  that  long-drawn  note 

An  added  quiet  o'er  the  forest  fell, 
No  call  in  answer  came,  howe'er  remote, 

No  sound  of  life,  to  break  the  moonlight's  spell. 

A  moment's  pause,  again  the  horn  he  raised, 
Once  more,  the  call  the  sleeping  echoes  woke. 

Then  from  within  a  distant  tangled  maze 
An  answering  call,  the  forest  silence  broke. 


Far    from    his    northern    home    the   moose    had 
strayed 

By  winding  hidden  ways,  untried  before, 
His  course  still  by  the  mating  instinct  swayed, 

In  silence  trod  the  beast,  the  forest  floor. 

When  with  the  coming  of  that  moonlit  night 
Unto  his  ear,  was  borne  the  hunter's  call, 

His  muscles  tenser  grew,  keen  for  the  fight, 
Then  for  a  space  was  silence  over  all. 

That  long-drawn  note  again  its  summons  sent, 
Then   with   a    roar,   his   answering    challenge 
sped. 

Trees,  shrubs,  all  else,  before  his  anger  bent, 
Beneath  the  onrush  of  that  antlered  head. 

When  well  adown  the  mountain's  rocky  side, 
Caution  once  more  the  creature's  instinct 

swayed. 

His  haste   withheld,   far   through   the   trees   de 
scried 

The  lake's  faint  gleam.    His  onward  rush  was 
stayed. 

26 


Then,  as  a  shadow  through  the  darkened  wood, 
Once  more  the  beast  resumed  his  onward  way, 

Till  well  within  the  tree-lined  shore  he  stood, 
Before  him  bathed  in  light  the  sand  beach  lay. 

No  massive  shape  within  the  moonlight  stood, 
No  mate  nor  rival  bull  awaited  there. 

The  black  unbroken  outline  of  the  wood 

Gave  forth  no  taint  upon  the  chill  night  air. 


Some  time  in  silence  stood  the  listening  bull, 
Then  sounded,  close  at  hand,  a  plaintive  call. 

Forth  on  the  beach  he  plunged,  huge,  masterful, 
With  head  upraised  on  massive  shoulders  tall. 


A  second  thus  he  stood  in  waiting  mien, 

Then  from  the  nearby  copse,  a  spurt  of  flame, 

The  hunter's  rifle  sped  its  yellow  gleam, 
True  in  the  woodman's  hand  its  deadly  aim. 


27 


The  mighty  beast  sore  hit,  with  crashing  plunge 
Backward  into  the  forest  plowed  his  way. 

With  fiery,  stinging  pain,  each  forward  lunge, 
He  knew  that  northward  only  safety  lay. 

With  eyes  still  true  to  thread  the  forest  ways, 
On,  on,  the  wounded  beast  in  terror  fled. 

Far  toward  the  north,  he  trod  the  tangled  maze. 
His  heaving  sides  now  stained  a  tawny  red. 

Throughout    that    weary,     pain-filled,    moon-lit 

night, 
The  wounded  moose  kept  on  his  blood-stained 

way. 

His  blinding  fear  no  rest  allowed  his  flight 
Until  the  daylight  o'er  the  forest  lay. 

Then  sank  the  beast  within  the  forest  there, 
A  moment's  rest  before  his  flight  renewed, 

The  while,  his  nostrils  test  the  morning  air. 
Then  northward  once  again  his  flight  pursued. 

28 


Five  weary  nights  and  days  of  throbbing  pain, 
The  moose  pressed  onward  toward  his  haunts 
of  old, 

His  rests  more  frequent  grown,  then  on  again, 
His  blood-shot  eye  still  true,  his  course  to  hold. 

The  wounded  beast's  pursuit  long  given  o'er, 
To  other  trails,  the  hunter's  steps  had  turned. 

To  regions  tried  by  such  as  he  before, 

When   in   their    veins,    the    lust   to   kill,   had 
burned. 

The  fifth  long  weary  day  was  nearly  done, 

The  moose's  long  flight  of  pain,  was  almost 

o'er, 
As  sank  behind  the  hills,  the  yellow  sun, 

The  beast  broke   forth  upon  the  lake's   cool 
shore. 

That  hidden,  northern  lake,  by  men  unknown, 
Where  free  from  hunted  fear  the  moose  had 
dwelt, 

Secure  within  his  northland  forest  home 
Till  in  his  blood,  October's  call  he  felt. 


29 


Now  wounded  sore,  again  the  lake  he  sought, 
His  glazing  eyes  once  more  its  surface  sees, 

Where  motionless,  in  clearest  crystal  wrought, 
Inverted  stand  the  outlines  of  the  trees. 

The  beast's  huge  form  upon  the  lake's  dim  shore, 
As  oft'  of  old  at  twilight  he  had  stood, 

With  antlered  head  upraised,  his  glance  sweeps 

o'er 
The  waters,  to  the  far  shore's  darkened  wood. 

A  moment  thus  he  stands,  then  o'er  his  frame 
Again    the    wound's    dull    throb,    its    tremors 
spread, 

Then  to  his  knees,  the  beast  sinks  once  again, 
Down,  down,  unto  the  earth,  that  massive  head. 

One  mighty  effort  more  to  rise,  he  makes, 
Then    o'er    his    form,    death's    quiet,    slowly 
creeps. 

The  sun's  last  ray,  that  northern  lake  forsakes, 
As  by  its  shore  the  fallen  monarch  sleeps. 

30 


n 
fitk 


7         !•          T  t 


"Winter's  Slow  Retreat 

To  one  who  walks  alone  in  early  Spring 
Among  the  trees  where  falls  a  dreary  rain, 
By  hidden  paths  where  sheltered  drifts  remain, 

Slow  melting  snows  of  Winter,  lingering, 

'Midst  happier  thoughts,  some  notes  of  sadness 

ring 

Their  measured  cadence,  leaving  in  their  train 
A  sense  of  sorrow,  sorrow  fraught  with  pain 

Soul-felt,  that  passing,  leaves  no  after-sting. 

The  leaves  in  sodden  mass  beneath  the  feet, 
No  sound  the  footfall  makes,  while  every 
where 
The    drifting    raindrops    fall    with   whispered 

beat, 

With  still  a  feel  of  snow,  within  the  air, 
A  chill  that  tells  of  Winter's  slow  retreat, 
And  yet  the  breath  of  Spring  still  greets  us 
there. 


33 


Nigkt's  Witckery 

How  often  have  I  lain  at  night  alone 
Within  the  shadow  of  some  sheltering  pine, 
While  o'er  my  head  the  wind  made  somber  moan 
As    through    the    trees    I    watched   the    moon's 

decline. 

The  wind-swept  boughs  with  spectral  tracery 
In  ever  changing  form,  against  the  sky, 
While  faintly  o'er  the  wind's  wild  melody 
I  caught  some  wandering  night-bird's  far-borne 

cry. 

The  scudding  clouds  beyond  the  swaying  trees, 
The  open  places  where  the  stars  gleamed  cold, 
On  such  a  night,  borne  on  the  freshened  breeze, 
The  Spirits  of  the  Wind,  wild  revel  hold. 
Thus,  while  the  hours  of  darkness  sped  away 
Night's  witchery  upon  my  spirit  lay. 


34 


1 

r-'K 

m 


I    L-BBBB  ! i 

At  Nigkt 

(A   CONTRAST.) 

The  blaze  of  myriad  lights  adown  the  city  street, 
The  rumbled  hum  of  traffic  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
The  throng,  where  gem-clad  wealth  and  humble 
beggar  meet. 


The  city's  massive  structures  rising  grim  and  tall, 
The  eye-like  gleam  of  windows  from  each  storied 

wall, 
The  moon's  pale  face  unwearied  watching  over 

all. 


35 


•  ) 


Tky   Voi 


oice 


Fair  Nature's  God,  how  often  have  I  felt 
Thy  Presence,  when  within  the  deeper  wood 
In  listening  reverie  have  I  silent  stood 

Where  but  the  untamed  forest  creatures  dwelt. 


Around  me  there,  the  wood's  deep  silence  lay, 
Save  where  from  out  the  north  a  wandering 

breeze 
In  murmured  passage  o'er  the  higher  trees 

Gave  there  Thy  Voice,  in  forest  melody. 

Or  when  within  some  wilder,  deep-toned  mood 
The  harsher  winds,  the  forest  branches  bend, 
While  far  abroad,  the  moaning  tree-tops  send 

Their    storm-flung   warnings    from   the   ancient 
wood, 

Then  have  I  heard  in  sterner  mood,  Thy  Voice, 
Upon  the  sweeping  wind,  its  accent  borne. 
The  stricken  trees  before  the  storm-wind  torn. 

Seemed  in  their  cry,  to  even  then  rejoice. 


To  Prime's  ""I  Go  A-Fishing" 

Would  that  my  humble  pen,  some  tribute  rare, 

might  pay, 

To  thee,  well  styled  the  Walton  of  a  later  day, 
Who  builded  here  in  prose,  poetic  harmony. 


Book  of  rare  fancies !     Here  within  thy  volume 

bound 
A  charm  once  felt,  then  gladdens  all  life's  weary 

round. 
How  often  have  I  here,  contentment  sought,  and 

found. 


39 


"Have  You  Any  Fish?" 

Suggested  by  the  first  chapter  of  Prime's 
"I  Go  A-FISHING." 


"I  go  a-fishing,"  Peter  said. 

Said  the  rest,  "We  go  with  thee." 
So  they  journeyed  down  at  the  close  of  day, 

To  their  boat  by  the  sun-set  sea. 

For  the  Master  bade  them  wait  Him, 

Till  He  should  appear  again, 
So  to  pass  through  the  waiting  hours,  once  more 

To  fish,  went  those  earnest  men. 

Could  I  but  gather  the  story 

Of  that  night  in  Galilee, 
Such  a  fisherman's  tale  would  then  unfold, 

As  there  never  again  will  be. 

Of  the  words  and  truths  there  spoken, 

The  hopes  of  those  fishermen, 
As  the  night  hours  passed  and  they  waited  there 

Until  He  should  appear  again. 

40 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

As  the  first  pale  lights  of  the  morning 

Spread  over  that  waiting  sea, 
To  the  watchers  there,  rang  a  voice,  sweet  toned, 

From  the  shores  of  old  Galilee. 

Those  words,  oft  heard  by  the  fisher 

As  the  years  have  rolled  away, 
"Have  you  any  fish  ?"  asked  the  Saviour  there, 

In  the  dawn  of  that  long-gone  day. 

How  often,  my  brother  angler, 

Home  returning,  wearily, 
Have  we  heard  in  greeting,  those  words  of  old, 

At  the  end  of  some  happy  day. 

And  hearing,  then  in  our  fancy 

The  dawn  of  that  day  we  see, 
When  the  Saviour  called  to  His  fishermen 

O'er  the  waters  of  Galilee. 


The   Forest   Silence 

To  one,  who  far  from  human-kind  has  dwelt 

Within  the  forest's  dim  untrodden  way, 
And  'round  whose  soul  night's  mystery  has  crept, 

As  o'er  the  woods  the  pall  of  darkness  lay, 
To  such  as  he,  without  whose  cabin  door 

Unmoved  has  stood,  while  o'er  his  senses  fall 
The  death-like  silence  of  the  ancient  woods, 

The  wonder  of  that  stillness  over  all. 
Unto  his  mind  there  comes  an  unformed  sense 

Of  what  Eternity's  vast  gloom  must  be, 
Eternity  on  earth,  when  life  has  passed, 

Vast  throbbing  life,  of  air,  of  land  and  sea. 
Such  silent  gloom  as  once  enwrapt  the  earth 

In  ages  past,  before  life's  germ  was  sent, 
Such  silence  as  in  time  to  come,  will  be, 

When  from  the  earth,  life's  vital  force  is  spent. 


42 


Lord  of  the   Forest 

Lord  of  the  Forest!  Whose  clear  voice  is  heard 
In    whispered    accents    from    the    murmuring 
pine. 

A  hint  of  splendor  from  whose  throne  we  see 
As  from  some  lake,  we  watch  the  sun's  decline. 

Lord  of  the  Winds,  that  o'er  the  forests  blow 
From     out     the     Northland's     ice-enveloped 
strand. 

Or  in  some  gentler  mood  caress  the  trees 

When  Summer's  spell  enwraps  the  forest  land. 

Lord  of  the  ever-singing  Forest  Streams, 

Whose  murmuring  voices  chant  Thy  song  of 

praise. 
Lord  of  the  tree-bound  Lakes,  from  whose  fair 

shores 

The  tree-clad  hills,  their   slopes  in  grandeur 
raise. 

Lord  of  the  Life  that  in  the  forest  dwells, 
That  life,  unseen,  unheard,  except  by  Thee ; 

May  we  who  love  Thy  forest  ways,  there  find 
Full  understanding  of  Thy  majesty. 

45 


/ft 

is 


Tke   Voices 

Voices  that  sigh  and  murmur 
In  accents  strange  and  low, 

Voices,  but  heard  in  the  forest 

When  the  northland  breezes  blow. 

Voices  that  fade  and  vanish 

With  a  breath  of  the   freshened  air, 
And  leave  but  a  hint  of  their  passing, 

To  one  who  listens  there. 

Voices  once  heard,  ne'er  forgotten, 
That  in  memory  ever  seem 

As  of  some  whispered  presence, 
In  the  imagery  of  a  dream. 


46 


r. 


7 


Newfound   Lake  —  A  Memory 

The  glory  of  the  far-hill's  purple  haze, 

Embanked  beneath  the  wonder-tinted  sky, 
Where  mass  on  mass  in  distant  splendor,  lie 

The  clouds,  lit  by  the  sun's  departing  rays. 

While  from  the  lake's  far  shore,  the  forest  maze 
Enwraps  the  rugged  hills,  to  where  on  high 
Their  rock-faced  peaks,  the  wild-voiced  winds, 
defy, 

When  o'er  the  hills,  the  forked  lightning  plays. 

The  shadows  lengthen  and  the  daylight  fades, 

The  little  stars  once  more,  in  lustre  rare 
Peep  forth  above  the  distant  forest  glades, 

While  borne  adown  the  ever-freshening  air 
The  chill  of  night  again  the  soul  invades, 
And    darkness    spreads    its    blanket    every 
where. 

47 


{ft 


The   Forest 

You  ask  me,  why  I  love  the  forest, 

Why,  far  from  traveled  ways  I  love  to  roam, 
And  deep  within  the  shadowed  wildwood 

Make,  for  a  time,  my  woodland  home. 

You  ask  me,  why  the  forest  calls  me, 
Why  dream  I  often  of  its  hidden  ways ; 

Why,  when  the  cares  of  life  surround  me, 
Before  me  rise  those  bygone  camping  days. 

I  answer ;  Have  you  known  the  forest, 

When,  with  the  breath  of  peace,  it  murmurs 
low? 

Have  you,  within  its  shelter  lingered, 

As  round  about,  the  far-sent  breezes  blow  ? 

Once  know,  my  friend,  the  rare  enchantment 
That  lurks  within  the  shadowed  forest  old, 

There  will  you  turn  again,  when  weary, 
To  forest-sheltered  realms  of  peace  untold. 


I     ' 

n 

fift 


\\i  WS IS 

V  : 

If  .  /,  V| 


The  Player 

Upon  the  walls  the  mystery  of  the  firelight's  play, 
Within  the  blackened  hearth,  the  fairy-like  array 
Of  flames  that  for  the  moment  dance,  then  fade 
away. 

And  fading,  then  the  shadows  gather  over  all, 
Save  for  the  glow  of  embers,  and  the  silvery  fall 
Of  moonlight  patches  on  the  rough-hewn  cabin 
wall. 

And  as  the  shadows  deepen  and  the  firelight  dies, 
The  player  bids  once  more,  a  strain  of  music  rise, 
More  wondrous  than  the  song  of  birds  'neath 
summer  skies. 


. 

. 


Then  as  the  strain's  enchantment  floods  the  dark 
ened  air 

There  flow  from  out  its  mystic  spell,  dim  fancies 
rare, 

While  ever-changing  shadow-forms  glide  'round 
us  there. 


We  catch  the  voice  of  rivers  and  the  sigh  of  trees, 
The  murmur  of  the  pines  where  sweeps  the  forest 

breeze, 
The  calls  of  bird-land  and  the  drowsy  hum  of 

bees. 


A  pause,  then  from  the  magic  strings,  a  wilder 

strain, 
A  moan,  as  of  some  coming  storm's  far-heard 

refrain, 
Commingled  with  the  distant  beating  of  the  rain. 


*  m  -u  •  v 
w \    \    P 

V        f1          W          ••¥ 


Louder  and  ever  louder  rings  that  note  of  storm, 
The  crash  of  trees,   from  out  their  root-bound 

moorings,  torn, 
Now,   o'er  us,    on   the   wind's   wild   melody,   is 

borne. 

The  music  changes  and  we  catch  the  tramp  of 

feet, 
The  swing  of  marshaled  hosts  adown  some  dusty 

street, 
To  war-like  call  of  fife,  and  drum's  unwearied 

beat. 


Again  the  music  ceases  and  the  player's  bow 
A  time  is  stilled.    Then  o'er  the  strings  in  move 
ment  slow 

It  passes.    While,  as  though  in  joy,  they  murmur 
low. 


53 


Spell-bound  we  listen,  while  a  breath  of  child 
hood  steals 

About  the  soul.    And  as  the  silent  player  wields 
His  wondrous  art,  unto  the  spell  the  spirit  yields. 

Of  childhood  and  a  care-free  youth,  the  music 

tells, 
Then  to  the  ear  is  borne  the  peal  of  marriage 

bells, 
As  sweeter  still,  the  strain's  enchantment  ever 

swells. 

Stronger  it  grows,  built  of  the  height  of  man 
hood's  prime, 

Then  falters  and  in  strains  of  sterner,  measured 
time, 

A  note  of  sadness  breathes  a  hint  of  life's  decline. 


54 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

And  then  a  feeble  step  upon  the  bedroom  stair, 
The   drawn,   hushed   whispers   of  the   watchers 

waiting  there, 
The  toll  of  funeral  bell,  upon  the  morning  air. 

The   music  ceases  and  the   smouldering  embers 

fade, 

The  player  rests,  his  slender  bow  aside  is  laid, 
The  silent  shadows  deepen,  and  each  soul  invade. 


55 


I  ' 

%x   ^   '  I 


At   Evening 

A  few  short  hours  and  daylight  vanishes, 
The  hush  of  evening  falls  and  night  is  come. 

A  few  fair  days,  and  Summer  languishes, 
The  Autumn  passes  and  the  fields  grow  dun. 


A  few  glad  years  of  life  and  love  and  sorrow, 
The  twilight  gathers  and  we  stand  alone. 

Friendship's  circle  broken  as  we  wait  the  morrow, 
Expectant  for  the  call  that  bids  us  home. 


And  Yet  Again 

An  angler  newly  wise  to  ways  of  fish, 
Had  often  heard  from  friends  that  ancient  tale, 

"I  hooked  another,  with  a  rush  and  swish 
I  lost  him,  and  by  George !  he  was  a  whale !" 

And  at  such  tales,  our  friend  was  wont  to  smile, 
That  smile  wherein  is  mixed  a  grain  of  doubt. 

"To-morrow,  then,"  quoth  he,  "I'll  fish  a  while, 
And  mark  you,  sir,  I'll  land  my  largest  trout." 

Back  from  the  sparkling  stream  he  came, 
Refreshed  but  weary-limbed,  at  close  of  day, 

And  to  inquiring  friends,  his  tale  the  same, 
The  largest  fish  he'd  hooked  had  got  away. 


59 


(ft 


My  Fly-Book 

I've  a  treasure,  spotted,  stained  and  worn, 
That  I  would  not  change  for  gold, 

For  money  would  never  yield  the  charm 
That  lies  in  my  fly-book  old. 

For  we've  listened  to  many  waters 

In  days  that  are  now  gone  by, 
And  we  often  commune  together, 

Do  my  old  fly-book  and  I. 

Of  things  that  are  known  to  no  other, 
Of  streams  where  the  waters  sing. 

Of  woodlands  where,  when  the  south  winds  blow, 
The  bells  of  the  forest  ring. 


Of  the  fair  face  of  a  forest  lake, 
And  the  trees  along  the  shore, 

Ripples  that  break  from  the  birch  canoe 
As  we  glide  the  surface  o'er. 


60 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

Of  rising  trout  and  the  circles  there 
That  spread  and  then  die  away, 

Of  the  little  stars  that  o'er  the  trees 
Rise  clear,  at  the  close  of  day. 

For  we've  wandered  far,  old  book,  and  found 

That  happiness  true,  that  lies 
In  singing  brooks  and  the  tree-bound  lakes 

Where  the  speckled  beauties  rise. 

We  have  journeyed  so  long  together 

As  the  years  have  rolled  away 
May  I  find  you  here  in  my  pocket 

When  I  fish  on  that  last  glad  day. 


fL 


6T 


A.. 


, 


Tke  Old  Man's  Story 

The  old  man  sat  in  his  great  arm-chair, 

His  fly-book  on  his  knee, 
And  we  listened  all,  to  the  tale  he  told, 

Of  the  fish  that  used  to  be. 

For  his   eyes  were  clear,  though  his  hair  was 
white, 

And  the  old  fly-book  was  worn, 
And  his  thin  hand  shook  as  he  lifted  there 

Those  flies  with  feathers  torn. 

"'Twas  back  in  the  days  of  long  ago 
That  1  fished  that  mountain  stream, 

And  the  month  was  June,  and  the  day  was  one 
When  we  anglers  fish  and  dream. 

Full  many  a  fish  to  my  creel  had  come 

From  the  pools  far  up  the  hill, 
Ere  I  reached  the  edge  of  the  pasture  green 

Where  the  brook  flows  deep  and  still. 


62 


, 

•     :    I     I 


You  know  the  pool  where  the  shelving  bank 

Hangs  wide  o'er  the  willow's  root. 
My  flies  shot  clear  of  the  low-hung  branch, 

Then  sank  at  the  rapid's  foot. 

Though  'twas  years  ago  that  good  fish  rose, 

To  me,  as  tho'  yesterday, 
There  comes  the  glint  of  his  silvery  sides 

And  the  flash  of  the  rising  spray. 

My  line  snapped  taut  and  my  reel  yelled  keen, 

As  I  met  that  glorious  rise, 
And  the  hook  sank  deep  in  the  iron-like  jaws 

Of  that  fish  of  wondrous  size. 

Then  he  sped  below  to  the  pool's  black  depths, 

And  my  trusty  rod  bent  low, 
While  my  taut  line  sang  through  the  water  clear, 

Like  the  whirr  of  the  redman's  bow. 


But  at  last  he  turned  from  his  downward  rush 
And  sped  toward  the  shelving  bank, 

Where  my  line   scraped  harsh  on  the  willow's 

root 
While  the  heart  within  me  sank. 

But  the  old  line  held  and  the  day  was  won 

For  at  last  that  good  fish  lay 
'Mid  the  grass  and  ferns  of  the  pasture  bank 

In  the  light  of  that  fair  June  day. 

The  largest  fish  in  my  creel  that  night, 
For  he  weighed  just  two  pounds  four, 

Da  you  wonder  then  that  in  memory  oft 
I  fight  that  battle  o'er?" 

His  old  eyes  closed,  for  the  tale  was  done, 
And  his  thoughts  on  that  far-off  day 

Of  that  time  long  gone  and  that  largest  fish 
That  failed  to  get  away. 


i  I 


Song  of  tke  Forest 

I  sing  from  the  heart  of  the  throbbing  life, 

From  the  sap  within  the  tree, 
From  the  hidden  flowers  'neath  the  matted  leaves, 

And  the  south  wind  blowing  free. 

I  sing  from  the  cool  of  the  shadowed  glade, 
When  the  Summer's  sun  rides  high, 

From    the    deepened    green    of    the    full-grown 

leaves, 
'Neath  the  heat  of  the  sultry  sky. 

Once  again  I  sing,  when  the  Autumn  winds 
Blow  chill  o'er  the  woods  of  brown, 

And  the  ripened  leaves  on  the  freshened  air 
Come  silently  drifting  down. 

Then  I  sing  once  more,  when  the  drifted  snows 

Lie  deep  in  the  forests  gray 
And  the  cold  white  light  of  the  Winter's  moon 

Gleams  chill  at  the  close  of  day. 


! 


. 


ParmacLenee  Belle 

An  Ibis  or  a  Hackle 

Shall  I  fix  on  my  cast  to-day? 
Or  shall  I  trust  to  a  Grizzly  King, 

Or  the  gold  of  a  Yellow  May? 

Or  pin  my  faith  to  a  Coachman, 

Or  a  Silver  Doctor  try? 
For  the  day  grows  dark  as  the  thickening  clouds 

Drift  low  in  the  sultry  sky. 

But  tucked  away  in  a  pocket 

Of  my  fly-book,  old  and  worn, 
I've  a  faded  fly  of  a  day  gone  by, 

With  its  feathers  stained  and  torn. 


68 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

Trusted  in  many  battles 

Under  shadowed  or  sunny  skies, 

Never  yet  has  that  old  fly  lost  its  charm 
When  the  fish  were  on  the  rise. 


So  looped  again  on  my  leader 
Once  more  let  me  cast  the  spell 

Of  the  yellow  and  white,  and  faded  red, 
Of  the  Parmachenee  Belle. 


Coming  of  the  Storm 

Heat-laden,  dull,  oppressive  was  the  air, 

The  sun's  hot  face  shone  with  an  undimmed 
ray. 

The  silence  of  the  woods  enwrapt  us  there, 
As  on  the  lake's  fair  shore,  we  stood  that  day. 

Few  were  the  whispers  of  a  sultry  breeze, 
Unmoved,  the  forest's  green  beneath  it  lay, 

All  motionless,  save  where  the  higher  trees 
Its  lightest  touch,  but  answered  silently. 

Clear-cut  as  though  the  trees  inverted  stood 
The  far-shore's  deep  reflection  met  the  eye, 

Each  varied  color  of  that  distant  wood 

The  lake's  face  pictured  'neath  that  heated  sky. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  distant  shore, 

A  solitary  loon  swam  lazily. 
That  bit  of  life  but  emphasized  the  more 

The  solitude  of  that  still  summer's  day. 


In  darkened  mass,  low  o'er  the  western  hills, 
Embanked  in  thickening  haze,  the  storm  clouds 
lay. 

Their  curtain,  all  the  far  horizon  filled 
With  ever-changing  mass,  in  wild  array. 

Thus  while  we  stood,  a  greater  silence  fell, 
A  stillness  as  of  death,  spread  'round  us  there. 

Lake,  forest,  all  within  that  silent  spell, 

Hushed  were  the  whispers  of  the  sultry  air. 

O'er  all,  a  moment  thus  the  silence  hung, 

Then  borne  afar  from  out  the  darkened  west, 

From  where  the  storm,  its  gathering  shadows 

flung, 
A  murmur  of  its  coming,  manifest. 

A  far-heard  beating  on  the  forest  leaves, 
A  sound  as  of  some  faintly  distant  shore, 

Whose  beaten  sand,  the  curling  wave,  receives, 
As  from  the  sea,  the  ocean  breeze  sweeps  o'er. 


With  force  increasing,  onward  swept  the  storm. 

The  trees  beneath  it,  cried  in  wild  intone. 
Their  swaying  tops  low  by  the  wild  winds  borne, 

Swept  onward  to  our  ears,  its  sullen  moan. 

The  first  few  scattered  raindrops  reached  the  lake. 
Their  patter  heard  above  the  wind's  refrain. 

Then,  wall-like,  followed  close  within  their  wake, 
The  drenching  down-pour  of  the  driven  rain. 

Then  swept  o'er  lake  and  wood,  the  storm's  wild 
roar, 

The  waters  whipped  to  foam  beneath  its  blow. 
The  waves  thrown  high  upon  the  beaten  shore, 

The  forest  trees  before  its  blast,  bent  low. 

Above  the  shrieking  of  the  winds,  was  borne, 
From   out   the    far   shore's    wild,    wind-swept 
lagoon, 

As  though  some  fiend  in  torment  rode  the  storm, 
The  weird,  unearthly  laughter  of  the  loon. 


72 


The  Unknown  Lake 

A  Summer  agone  we  found  you 

Walled  by  the  forest  old, 
Your  crystal  waters  freshened 

Where   the   hidden   springs   gushed   cold. 

How  passed  the  spell  of  Autumn 
When  the  ripened  leaves  came  down, 

And  on  your  sheltered  waters 
Built  them  their  rafts  of  brown? 

Now,  locked  in  your  ice-formed  mantle 
'Neath  the  gray  of  the  Winter's  sky 

Unruffled,  unmoved,  unseeing, 
Your  silent  waters  lie. 

But  the  Winter  days  shall  lengthen 

And  the  time  of  waiting  wane, 
And  we,  who  have  found  and  loved  you, 

Shall  come  to  our  own  again. 


75 


At  tke  Trail's  End 

Mile  after  mile  we  have  traveled 
By  the  trail's  long  winding  way, 

'Til  deep  in  the  ancient  forest 
We  rest  at  the  close  of  day. 

Stretched  is  the  roof  of  canvas, 

Fresh-pulled  the  balsam  boughs, 
While  the  camp-fire's  new-born  crackling 
The  woodland  spirits  rouse. 

The  evening  meal  is  finished, 

Tobacco's  spell  holds  sway, 
And  we  drowse  and  speak  of  the  morrow, 

And  plan  for  the  coming  day. 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

Hushed  is  the  darkened  forest 

'Neath  the  spell  of  the  northern  night, 

While  the  shadows  dance  and  vanish 
With  the  play  of  the  camp-fire's  light. 

We  drowse,  and  the  spell  of  the  firelight 

Brings  fancies  dim  and  old, 
Peopled  with  new-found  faces, 

With  the  charm  of  some  tale  untold. 

But  the  fancies  change  and  vanish 

As  the  dancing  firelight  dies, 
And  we  sleep  that  rare  sleep  of  the  forest 

Till  the  winds  of  the  morning  rise. 


77 


i 


m 


T 

L_'_. 


To  Y—  Pond 

May  the  trout  rise 

And  the  loons  laugh 
From  thy  crystal  waters, 

Till  all  we  who  love  thee 
Have  hit  the  one  great  trail 
To  the  last  camping  ground. 


Ji 

iHm 


Cry  of  tne  Loon 

Voice  of  the  lake  and  forest  solitude. 

Weird  cry  that  echoes  o'er  the  water's  face, 
As  though  some  spirit  lost,  within  this  place 

Its  cry  of  anguish,  here,  again  renewed. 

Or,  ringing  o'er  the  forest's  silent  spell, 

The  loon's  wild  laughter  smites  the  moveless 

air, 
As  though  in  mockery  of  my  presence,  where 

By  ancient  right,  the  wild-folk  only  dwell. 

Or  when  adown  the  wind  there  wails  the  storm, 
And  on  the   wave-tossed  lake  the  loon  rides 

free, 
Commingled  with  that  storm-sung  melody, 

Again  that  laughter  to  my  ear  is  borne. 

There  comes  a  time  within  each  passing  year 
When,   for  the  North,  my  soul  yearns  long 
ingly, 
Then,  heard  as  in  a  dream,  the  loon's  weird 

cry, 
Bids  me  return  unto  the  forests  dear. 


81 


•j        I    I 


\Vinter  Voices 

With  murmurs  low,  within  this  snow-bound  dell 
The  woodland  brook  proclaims  its  ice-bound 
way, 

Soft,  tinkling  note,  as  of  some  distant  bell 
Far-heard  across  the  fields,  this  Winter's  day. 

Borne  clear,  upon  the  biting  snow-filled  air 
There  comes  the  call  of  some  belated  crow 

Whose   flight    delayed,    now    seeks    the    shelter 

where 
Night  after  night,  his  dusky  comrades  go. 


From  out  the  hillside's  gray  entangled  wood 
There  comes  the  clamor  of  the  crested  jay. 

Voice  of  the  Past !  How  often  have  I  stood 
Within  thy  spell,  upon  some  long-gone  day. 

82 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

At  intervals,  upon  the  passing  breeze 

Is  borne  the  baying  of  some  tireless  hound, 

As  eagerly  he  trails  among  the  trees 

Where  passed  the  fox  upon  his  nightly  round. 

Such  were  the  voices  of  that  Winter's  day, 

Such  sounds  I  heard  as  'neath  the  trees  I  stood, 

Where  branch  on  branch  the  frost-king's  mantle 

lay 
And  muffled  were  the  voices  of  the  wood. 


yC 


Wild 


erness 


I  stood  in  wonder  on  that  mountain  crest, 

For  northward  stretched  the  forest's  mystery, 

As  though  in  billows  tossed,  and  yet  at  rest, 
There  lay  the  grandeur  of  some  spell-bound 
sea. 

While  scattered  o'er  that  waste  of  forest  trees, 
The  smiling  faces  of  a  myriad  lakes 

Laughed,    as    their    waters    felt    the    wandering 

breeze, 
That  o'er  the  woods,  its  silent  passage  makes. 

Far  to  the  north,  enshrined  in  purple  haze, 
A  distant  mountain  range  in  grandeur  lay, 

Its  forest-covered  sides  and  tangled  maze 
But  dimly  seen,  beneath  the  sun's  clear  ray. 

Unseen,  but  heard  from  where  I  wondering  stood, 
The  murmur  of  some  distant  water's  fall. 

The  only  voice  from  out  that  silent  wood, 
The  wilderness  enchantment  over  all. 


Domewnere 

Somewhere  the  hungry  trout  are  rising 

On  waters  'neath  the  sunset's  fading  glow. 

Somewhere  the  little  stars  are  peeping 

O'er  forests  where  the  twilight  breezes  blow. 

Somewhere  the  ripples  on  the  water 

In  silver  patches  rest,  then  slowly  fade. 

Somewhere  the  lily-pads  are  lying 

There    close    within    the    far-shore's    deeper 
shade. 

Somewhere  the  thirsty  deer  is  wading 

In  shallow  waters  near  the  darkened  shore. 

Somewhere  the  moose,  the  lake  is  seeking. 
His  heated  sides  to  splash  its  coolness  o'er. 

It's  somewhere  then  I  would  be  going 

When  twilight's  spell  falls  'round  the  closing 
day. 

To  somewhere,  lake  and  forest  call  me. 
Would  that  I  might  that  far-sent  call  obey. 


Tne  Fallen  Pine 

Within  a  tangled  swamp,  the  tree  we  found, 
Its  aged  trunk  moss-grown  o'er  years  decay. 

Part  upright  still,  it  stood,  part  on  the  ground, 
A  fallen  giant  of  a  long-gone  day. 

Then  came  a  vision  of  that  olden  time, 
Pictured  in  fancy  there  before  the  eye. 

Once  more  within  the  wood,  there  stood  the  pine, 
Its  twisted  top  far-flung  against  the  sky. 

With  massive  trunk  high  o'er  the  smaller  trees, 
A  sentinel  thus  for  ages  has  it  stood. 

First  warnings  felt  of  every  storm-sent  breeze 
That  swept  the  branches  of  that  ancient  wood. 

In  Summer,  o'er  the  heat-enveloped  glade, 
Those   twisted   boughs,   their   varied   shadows 

spread. 

Here  paused  the  deer,  within  their  deeper  shade, 
At  night,  here  sought  he  then,  his  moss-grown 
bed. 


Rhymes  of  the  Stream  and  Forest. 

When  Winter's  winds,  their  icy  burdens  brought, 
And  decked  this  pine  in  crystal  drapery, 

What     beauty     here,     the     snow-king's     magic 

wrought 
In  untold  forms  of  wondrous  tracery. 

Such  forest  music  must  this  tree  have  known 
When    through    its    boughs,    the    wandering 

winds  have  stirred, 
Could  but  some  mighty  organ  now  intone, 

Would  hold  in  raptured  spell,  all  those  who 
heard. 

Could  I  but  call  from  out  those  long-passed  days, 
The  whispered  melody  of  this  lone  pine, 

Then  to  such  heights,  would  I  these  verses  raise, 
That  all  the  world  would  harken  to  my  rhyme. 


89 


Going  Home 

Old  Northern  Hills,  once  more  I'm  going  home. 

Thy  loved  and  hallowed  spots  I  bid  good-bye, 
Where  for  a  time,  has  been  my  share  to  roam 

And  know  the  joys  that  in  thy  shadows  lie. 

For  here,  old  Hills,  I've  found  that  welcome  rest, 
That  rest  which  'round  the  soul  new  gladness 
throws. 

That  lifts  from  off  a  heart,  care-worn,  depressed, 
That  heavy,  long-borne  load,  one  weary  knows. 

But,  for  a  time,  old  Hills,  once  more  we  part. 

Now  fades  the  murmur  of  thy  crystal  streams. 
Within  the  shadow  of  thy  forest  heart, 

No  more  the  welcome  of  our  camp-fire  gleams. 

If  on  some  last  sad  day,  my  share  should  be, 

To  thread  no  more  thy  shadowed  hidden  ways, 
Old  Hills,  how  often  then  thy  mystery 

Would   in  my  heart,  thy   loved   remembrance 
raise. 

90 


